


Dandelion Greens

by AdrenalineRevolver



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Graphic Depictions of Flowers, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graves is here because he's my son, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Pre-Poly, This was going to be sad but got gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-03 08:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21176348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrenalineRevolver/pseuds/AdrenalineRevolver
Summary: Hotshot loves dandelions, unfortunately they love him too.





	Dandelion Greens

Hotshot always quietly appreciated dandelions. They grew up through cracks in the pavement regardless of who wanted them there and refused to bow to the toxic smoke of the city. Dandelions were like newsies in that way. No one paid attention to them unless it was to complain about their presence but if you stopped to look for a moment they were just as beautiful as the other flowers, just stronger. 

Some days they were the only bit of green he’d see in the sea of dull red bricks and gray haze. Defiant little flowers trying to remind the world that they lived here before everyone else set up shop. They were leftovers of a world that had been long since bricked over.

The dandelions were even useful. The flowers can make wine, Hotshot had made some once when he was just a kid and another little had brought home a fistful of orange peels. That might be the closest he ever gets to eating citrus now that he thinks about it. He remembered being pleasantly surprised that their concoction had actually tasted decent.

The greens are edible as well. His mother used to put them, wild onions, and whatever meat his father brought home into these little dough wrappers and steam them. She would use them in soups and salads as well but those were always his favorite. It was something only she seemed to be able to make, even when they went into town no one had anything like it. 

The roots were even a decent replacement for coffee, not that they had a real kick to them though. He would often roast the roots and grind them to split with the coffee and make it last longer. It was a quick little way to save a few pennies. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to be truly mad when they decided to take root in his lungs. If he was going to choke on anything he’d want it to be the flowers that he hears rich homeowners complain about for no reason other than aesthetics and sees poor parents quickly pick to supplement the things they could afford. It felt right. 

The dogs on his route noticed first. Rather than their excited play they sniffed him carefully and refused to stray far. Alley cats seemed to stay and watch rather than hide as they passed. It was poetic in a depressing sort of way, all the unwanted creatures of the city huddled together to try and keep each other going. He wondered if they could smell the disease on his breath and knew what happened to humans when they smelled pleasant from the inside out.

Very few of the other newsies noticed the change for a while. Hotshot was already quiet for his own reasons so they didn’t press anything when he spoke even less. It was one of the Manhattan kids that actually called him out on it. 

“You okay?” The kid had a mess of red hair and a few freckles scattered about his face. “They’s playin’ poker and I think I seen ya kill at that before.”

“I’d rather not.” He couldn’t help his eyes stray to the way the new couple was all but laying on each other. Race was sitting in Spot’s lap casually making bets while Spot played with his hair. He was happy for them. He had better be seeing as he helped them get to this point. 

“Yeah, a bit crowded for me too.” The guy slipped a small bottle of whiskey out of his pocket. “Wanna help me with this?”

“Please.” Hotshot led his savior up to the roof. He could feel some eyes flit to him as he did. He wasn’t sure what Manhattan newsies used their roof access for but in Brooklyn it was always either sex or an emotional breakdown. Hotshot hoped they assume it’s a fling. The last thing he needed is a bunch of the guys trying to carefully pick apart if he’s okay. 

“I’m Al.” Al casually laid out on the shitty mattress they have up top. At one point they had a tarp making a sort of tent above it but someone must have brought it in for some reason.

“Racer talks about ya.” He realized that probably sounded rude. Great place to start. “I’m Hotshot.” 

“Spot talks about ya. When I’m around at least.” Al thankfully didn’t seem bothered by his bluntness. “You’re his second in command and are in charge of tellin’ littles ‘no’ when they wanna raise hell. Ain’t a fun job but somebody’s gotta do it. Jack does that back home but I can see why Spot would someone else to be the one discouragin’ fights.” 

He nodded and sat next to the redhead. Hotshot’s job outside of Brooklyn was to be intimidating and to back up Spot, in Brooklyn he was a bit closer to a den mother. He didn’t mind it. They always had more kids than they let on and while Spot always made the decisions it took to keep them safe sad little faces could talk him into staying up late or drinking too much nearly every time. 

“He’s got this whole thing goin’ on where he’s the big badass that never backs down. So he can’t exactly tell a kid ‘now don’t do that you’ll get hurt’. Messes with his image. Personally, I don’t really get botherin’ ta put on that much of a show. Everyone knows he can break a guy’s legs with his bare hands. Don’t really need ta pretend ta be even tougher. I guess Race likes it though cause then he gets ta have this ‘secret Spot’ to himself. Ya know, the real one and all.” Al suddenly seemed aware that Hotshot hadn’t said anything. “Am I gettin’ on your nerves already?”

“No.” Hotshot wanted to kick himself. There was always this block between his brain and his mouth. He’d think something and just be unable to say it. He could talk to Spot and most of the other Brooklyn guys but people he didn’t know strangled his vocal cords. It made him appear intimidating when he needed to be, but then again it made him just as intimidating when he didn’t want to be. Spot once told him he read something in one of the papers that sounded like it, some German talking about voluntary aphasia. Though there was nothing really voluntary about it. Words just trickled away and shut off like turning off a faucet. 

“You sure? Cause I know I get on most everyone’s. I never know when to shut up.” He laughed and uncorked the bottle. 

Hotshot knew parroting when he heard it. It seemed like every time they got a new little they would have an insult for themselves that they threw out there. It took him some time to figure out why they did it but it was like they just wanted to see if you agreed with the last person that called them whatever nasty thing had taken root. It was like a round about way of asking if it was okay that whoever it was had dubbed them that. He took a deep enough breath that he could feel the flowers in his lungs move. The resulting coughing fit derailed any attempt to talk.

“Oh shit! No wonder you ain’t chatty.” Al sat up and slammed a hand on his back. “God it’s gettin’ to be that time of year ain’t it? I always hear people talkin’ about how they love fall and I wish I could.” He took a big swig of whiskey and handed Hotshot the bottle. “I always end up thinkin’ about pneumonia. And flu.” 

Hotshot held out the bottle so it wouldn’t touch his lips to keep up the charade of being possibly contagious. The whiskey burnt every inch of the way to his stomach and he wanted to thank the brewer personally for it. He needed that warmth. 

“You’d better not bite it this year. I’m serious.” Al had no idea what he was digging at. “Spot loves those kids to bit but he ain’t exactly no stern parent. Neither is Race.”

Hotshot raised an eyebrow and Al caught the question. 

“Well that’s what’d probably happen. The big bad king of Brooklyn’d be in bits and since Davey’s takin’ over so many things in Manhattan I don’t think Race’d stay. He already sells here. Practically lives here half the time. It was mostly Jack needin’ a second that kept him in Manhattan. Race has mentioned Davey doin’ him the favor of mostly takin’ that job like twice now. I don’t think Race is as okay with it as he pretends. Race ain’t ever as okay with things as he pretends.” Al held his hand out for the bottle and Hotshot could tell he needed it. 

It would bother Hotshot too. Honestly he’d be worried about Racetrack taking his place if Spot hadn’t dragged him up to the roof and explicitly laid out that even if Race does somehow end up staying in Brooklyn Hotshot would still be Spot’s second. It was the most bittersweet thing that Hotshot had ever tasted. 

“Race pretends he ain’t worried about anything. He pretends he ain’t smart too. I guess it’s easier ya know? Sometimes I wish I was smart enough to pretend I didn’t know shit. Cause I’m pretty stupid and I still know that half of us probably ain’t gonna be here in ten years.” Al threw back the rest of the alcohol before lying back on the makeshift bed. 

It gave Hotshot an idea. He lay next to Al and concentrated on the sky. Between the illusion of being alone and the booze in his system he could try to find his voice. “You ain’t stupid. You wouldn’t know he was smart if you was.”

“Hey! You’re talkin’ again.” Al sat up on his elbows. “Don’t that hurt?”

Hotshot sighed as he tried to think of an easy way to explain. “It’s hard. Don’t hurt though.”

“It don’t hurt but it’s ha-“ He gasped and sat up quickly enough to be startling. “Like that kid Crutchie talked about from the refuge. He won’t say nothin’. Ever. Whisper, that’s his name! Or at least what we call him cause he can’t exactly tell us his name.”

“See? Not stupid.” Hotshot closed his eyes to relax a little. 

“Ya know, it’s kinda weird ta think of a guy from Brooklyn havin’ somethin’ wrong. Didn’t think it was possible.” He mused.

Hotshot huffed out a laugh. Myron’s nerves were so bad he had to have a shot of alcohol to sleep some nights, even then the nightmares would sometimes drive him into Spot’s closet of a room. Kenny had pains in his legs from catching polio as a kid and refused to do anything about it until it was debilitating enough that he was out for a week. Bart was deaf in his left ear after that fever he had all winter when he was twelve. York was missing an eye but Hotshot was pretty sure most of the kids in Manhattan thought it somehow made him tougher to have no depth perception. Graves didn’t really have anything wrong with him but the kid was so earnest and innocent that it might as well count. Then there was Spot. 

The bastard couldn’t count. He couldn’t add. Couldn’t subtract. He couldn’t even really figure out time on a clock. He did all his selling based off the size of coins and tells time based off where the sun is in the sky. It’s not that he hasn’t tried to learn. Hotshot’s spent plenty of sleepless nights trying to help him. It’s like his brain just somehow was made without the ability to do math. Eventually it just got easier to figure out ways to not have to do it than to try and learn. 

“We hide it.” Playing up any problems you had worked for sales but in the long run it made you a target for thieves. It was safer to play it charming or find a route that you can take daily. They had littles to play up the pitiful orphan routine if they needed the extra money.

“I guess that makes more sense than none of ya ever gettin’ sick or nothin’.” Al settled back down. “I think I’d be bad at that. But I dunno. Think I’d make a decent Brooklyn newsie?”

He shrugged. It demanded more of a front than the other boroughs, more dedication too. But there were a lot more perks to it. 

“Ah, I think I’m good in Manhattan anyway. They’se family, you know?” He stared at the bottle before tossing it away. It clattered against the roof and refused to break. “Even if they kill ya.” 

Hotshot grabbed Al’s arm to get his attention. What did he mean by that? 

Albert looks up at him in confusion for a moment before bursting out into laughter. “I’m just bein’ dramatic. Ya-“ He’s cut off by a fit of coughs. “Oh god you’se contagious.” He grinned before hacking up a handful of wild violets. 

Hotshot stared at the bloody little flowers. Weeds. Unappreciated weeds with so much more potential than people knew. Violets could be candied. They could become liquor. They could be perfume. Most beautifully, they could be medicine. 

“I’m just kiddin’.” Al’s voice became softer, like he was trying to comfort a child who had had a bad dream “This is my fault not nobody else’s. I’m gonna be the one that bites it this winter.”

He carefully reached out and took one of the flowers before reaching into his pocket and taking out a beaten up and stained dandelion. Holding them together in his palm made his lungs burn and his stomach knot. “Die with me.” 

It was more intimate when said out loud but he couldn’t make himself regret it. He could see in his mind’s eye a potter’s field stubbornly growing yellow and purple no matter how many times it was cut or poisoned. Flowers for the forgotten. It would be a small mark to leave on the world but one he’d be happy with. 

“Well I…” Al sighed and looked off at the city. “I ain’t about to jump or nothin’. But if you mean like, bein’ there when the other chokes or whatever I’d be alright with that. I was just gonna pretend to run off anyway. So the guys never knew.”

Hotshot hadn’t put any thought to that. Now that he did he knew that the manhunt wouldn’t end until they found his corpse. No, it would be better if he eventually let them know. But, as selfish as it felt, not right away. He wanted things to be normal. Or close to it. 

“I’ll just…start droppin’ by every day. Then when I can’t leave no more that’s it.” Al closed his eyes. “Could be fun.” 

It was the start of a strange routine. Hotshot would go about his day as normal. Get up, make sure the littles are all awake, grab something to eat, sell, and then come home. Only, now on his way home Albert would be waiting near the bridge.

They started with the violets. Al had a thing for Race for what seemed like ever. His laugh, his eyes, his smile. Everything about him just burst into a room and filled it with light and excitement. Meanwhile, Albert had some very skewed opinions of himself. 

He thought he talked too much; to be honest Hotshot was happy to have the silence in his life filled with something other than just the sound of his cough. Al also somehow thought himself boring. That was even more confusing. DeSilva could slip anything into or out of someone’s pocket but Hotshot had only ever seen him use it to play with people. He also had a whole family back home. Brothers and everything. 

“I can show you boring.” Hotshot offered one day and took Al down a back alley. The trip took a bit but soon they were standing in front of what might as well be Hotshot’s second home. 

“Tompkins Park Free Library…” Al read the name out loud before looking Hotshot over. “What you don’t get enough readin’ from papes?”

Hotshot’s laugh turned into a choked up cough but the thrill on Al’s face made him realize that was probably the first time he’d laughed since they met. “Apparently not.”

The worker at the front desk recognized him when they went in. “Good evening Mr. Roussin. I’m happy to see you’ve finally brought a friend.” 

Hotshot felt his entire body go red as he nodded. Al followed him back to a secluded section and watched as he swiped one of his usual choices. 

Albert’s curiosity soon got the better of him. “So uh, will I be kicked out if I ask what that was?” 

“Shh.” Hotshot let him suffer for a moment, but just a moment. “That was my name. My dad was from Québec.”

“And you’re here because?” He had the decency to whisper.

“Murder.” The word caught in his throat. He could hear his father’s voice in his ear, faded with time but still startlingly clear, telling him to stay low and stay quiet. That the men after him would hurt Hotshot if they heard him. That he’ll meet up with Hotshot and his mother in the next town over and they’ll all go down to America. That Hotshot would go to school and his mother wouldn’t have to work. 

The gunshots hadn’t scared him. Gunshots were to be expected. It was his uncle leaving the little cabin alone that chilled him to the bone. His uncle was a tall man who seemed to stand straighter than a steel rod but when he exited the one room cabin that Hotshot had spent most of his life growing up in he looked small. Bent. Broken. 

There was apparently some discussion of what to do. His grandparents on his father’s side were long dead. His grandparents on his mother’s side had ended their relationship with her over not marrying someone they approved of. New York City seemed like the only option. 

His mother didn’t cry until they moved into their tenement. She refused to until she was certain they were safe. She may have been one of the strongest people he’d ever gotten to meet. 

His uncle said he wanted to come but his job was all the more important now. Hotshot now understood he meant he needed revenge. 

“Hey.” Al’s voice was loud enough to get him hushed by the librarian. “Still with us?”

“For now.” He gave Al a smile before going back to reading. 

Hotshot could tell it wasn’t really Al’s sort of thing. It made him appreciate the fact that the redhead was trying to put up with it all the more. He only made Albert sit around for an hour before leading him back out onto the street. 

“See? Boring.” He would occasionally bring stories back for the littles but the library was a secret for the same reason that Spot sneaking off with fish from the market to hand out to the cats was a secret. It was too soft and mundane for a Brooklyn newsie to be caught doing. 

“Are you fucking me?” Albert threw his head back and laughed. “The second most terrifying guy in New York sneaks off to a library like most guys sneak off to a whorehouse. That’s a lot of shit but it ain’t boring. Please tell me ya write poetry or somethin’.” 

“Probably not well.” He would try a little but he never really had the time to actually devote to it. He was always exhausted by the end of the day and Sundays were never really off days either even if he wasn’t selling. Something always had to be done.

“Holy shit.” Albert knocked into him playfully. “God you’re like the dog that my brothers used to scare the shit out of me with.”

“Well now you have to tell me.” He was a sucker for dogs.

“There was this dog that lived on our street ya know? Real mean lookin’ Doberman type thing? My brothers told me it ate little boys once the sun went down. Now I just realize they were bein’ dicks and wantin’ to keep me from goin’ outside after dark but still. Terrifyin’. One day I was tryin’ to climb the fence, as you do, and I fell over into it’s side. And it was goddamn sundown. I thought I was gonna die. I was bawling. And then it just hopped around me. Like any dumb ol’ dog who wants to play. Hell, when it realized I was cryin’ it got upset and just laid there whinin’ and cryin’ back at me. I was so mad I fed it my brothers’ socks.” Al snorted in laughter. “We were actually great pals for years.”

The word ‘were’ made Hotshot’s stomach drop. “What happened?” 

“Age. Thing got old and died not too long after I started sellin’.” Al sighed. “He was a good dog. I buried him in this little garden thing near the bowery in the middle of the night.”

Hotshot wondered if the combination of things is what made it harder. No one starts selling for positive reasons and then you lose your childhood friend on top of whatever forced you to become a newsie in the first place. In a way it was like his childhood died in one quick swing of the scythe. “All dogs are good dogs.”

“What about the dogs bulls sic on ya?” He quickly pointed out. 

“Terrible owners. They could have been good dogs before.” It was still an extremely fair point. Hotshot hated seeing bulls dragging around dogs, if they weren’t allowed to cut you then why train an animal with a knife full of teeth to do it?

“We’re getting dangerously close to phil….” He trailed off when he couldn’t think of the word.

“Philosophy?” He offered. It was either philosophy or psychology. Hotshot was decently sure Albert was going for the former.

“I think so.” Al nodded. “Thinkin’ about the state of shit.”

“We should drink then.” Always better not to think about things for too long if you can help it. 

Dandelions came up later. They had found their way back up to the roof and were staring at the stars when Hotshot brought them up. 

“I don’t know when it happened. I knew I didn’t want to live in a world where he wasn’t a part of it. I thought that was just normal. Then when he fell in love I was happy for him.” He sighed feeling leaves against his throat as he did. “At least I thought I was. I want him to be happy.” Apparently he’d die for it.

“You can be both. Though I wish I was more altruistic about it. There’s been multiple times where I’ve wanted to smash Spot’s face. But he’d just kick my ass and I’d be a jackass.” Al laughed. “A soaked jackass.”

Hotshot snorted. “Yeah I’ve been tempted to overhand toss Racetrack a few times. Especially when he does that stupid whisper thing.” 

“Whisper thing?” Al looked thoroughly confused.

Hotshot leaned in and pressed his lips to Al’s ear. “He thinks he’s being sly when he does this.”

“A-Ah.” Al went a shade of red that almost matched his hair. “Yeah I can see why uh, why he’d do that. Spot is just as bad though.” 

“Oh?” Hotshot watched as Albert threw an arm around his shoulder. He was going to comment on how that’s just a friendly gesture when Al slipped a finger under his sleeve. If you didn’t know Spot you could write it off as an accident but the guy was deliberate when he was giving out affection. He always approached Bart from the right, he always waited for Kenny to be rough with him first, and other little ways he tailored himself to the people around him. Hotshot knew Spot well enough sliding a finger under your shirt said more than ‘we’re close’ it said something closer to ‘I plan to get this off of you the moment I can.’

Hotshot probably should have expected the coughing fit. It was nice to have a hand on his back while he hacked up bloodied petals. 

“Make sure you get all that shit clear. Well I mean. You know.” The light seemed to drain from Al’s eyes and Hotshot felt like he had personally snuffed it. 

“Yeah.” He was tired. From his very bones he was tired. 

“I’ll let ya rest.” Al stood to go. “See ya tomorrow.” 

Albert wasn’t back the next day. 

As day shifted into night and no moon found it’s way into the sky Hotshot’s heart sank. He didn’t make it. He was out there somewhere. Alone. 

His legs moved without him giving the order, running towards the door. If he hadn’t been so focused he would have jumped when his arm was grabbed. 

“Hotshot where ya headed?” Spot held him in place firmly before leaning in. “Ya been disappearin’ more than usual.” Worried, Spot had been worried. 

It was too much from all angles. He could barely breathe and it wasn’t it even because of the flowers that were winding their way up his throat. He blinked rapidly trying to process it. Spot wasn’t stupid. Once he dies Spot will find out and he’ll feel like he failed somehow. 

A sob ripped itself from him and the resulting coughing fit has a dandelion with a full stem needing to be carefully pulled from his mouth. The stem and its leaves have drops of bright blood, taking away from the innocence of a simple flower. 

Some people would think that Spot didn’t react but Hotshot could see his eyes. Shock, fury, sorrow one after another in rapid succession before settling on grim determination. He could feel his grip become like a vice. Like if he just held Hotshot hard enough nothing could take him away.

“If ya think I’m gonna let ya run off and die like a dog I’m gonna kill ya right here.” He had no idea how right he was, just not about Hotshot.

Hotshot quickly brought his hands to Spot’s cheeks despite the lightheadedness. “Like a dog. Spotty. Spotty you’re a genius.”

Spot placed his hands over Hotshot’s as he tried to figure out just what he figured out. “Well yeah, but uh, feel free to tell me how.”

“He’s gonna be hiding with the dog.” His body felt weak even holding himself up. “I can’t carry him like this. I-“

“Anything.” Spot’s reassurance made things feel like they might possibly be okay. “I’m gonna get the guys, wait here.”

“Why do we need them?” Hotshot couldn’t help but be nervous about making this a public affair. 

“Someone needs to carry you after I soak you for not telling me any of this.” More likely Spot wanted the extra security. If there was one thing he was dedicated to it was trying to keep them safe, even if it was futile. 

Soon a drowsy Racetrack, who apparently had been spending the night, and an increasingly worried Myron were trying to explain to Graves that this was an age restricted sort of thing. 

Getting Graves to stay home turned out to be a challenge. He wanted to help more than anything and Hotshot could see Spot grasping for a reason he couldn’t that wasn’t ‘there’s real creeps out there on moonless nights’. His honesty could be the death of him sometimes. 

It took some effort to but Hotshot knelt in front of the kid. “And leave Brooklyn without a guard?”

His eyes lit up in an instant. He probably couldn’t phantom being trusted with such a responsibility. “A guard?”

“Yeah! Ya gotta look after things for Spot and Hotshot. Anything happens ya wake Kenny and Myron the three a ya soak whoever broke in.” Race nudged the little back towards the bunkroom. “Ya gotta pretend to be asleep though so any bad guy that gets in don’t know you’re gonna jump out and get him.”

“I’ll be the best guard.” Graves assured them. 

“I know ya will, kid.” Spot carefully shut the door behind him. “Right, so where in Manhattan is this dog?”

Hotshot gave a quiet explanation of where Al should be. A green space by the cemetery near the Bowery. He felt a little dazed as he followed the two along. 

He’s not sure what was said to Racetrack but he had to have figured it out. Whenever he looked at Hotshot he almost seemed nervous. Guilty. Hotshot could see him wanting to have his hands all over Spot to try and comfort him but not being sure if he should. 

“Race, could you give me a hand with this real quick? You can go on ahead.” He had to say something. 

Spot looked confused but thankfully didn’t really question it. 

“Uh, yeah, sure. What ya need?” He let himself get within arms reach so he either didn’t expect a punch or thought he deserved one. 

“To tell ya it’s okay.” He just needed to say it. 

Just like Al had explained Race must be usually faking not understanding because he dropped it in an instant. It was like his whole demeanor changed. He seemed sharp, tired, and like he was far older than his years let on. “No it ain’t.”

“Race, really. It-“ He started.

“I’m killin’ you. The most important man in the world ta Spot and I’m killin’ him by existin’. The fuck is that okay? Killin’ two guys if we’re lookin’ for who I think we are. At least when Spot can’t stand ta be around me no more he won’t get sick and I’ll go quick.” He kicked at a stray bit of concrete like it had insulted him personally. 

Most important…He shook it off. “You didn’t kill me. I killed me. I was the one who told Spot he should let you keep Sheepshead when he came back complaining that you were too witty to properly soak. I told Spot no one would mind that he likes guys because most of Brooklyn is like that to some extent. I want him to be happy. You make him happy.”

“And ya don’t? You’re his brother and I’m takin’ that just by bein’ here.” Race leaned against the cool metal of the bridge and hung his head.

His brother? “I don’t think he feels that way now...” Now that he knew. 

“Would he be draggin’ me out here if he didn’t? Maybe it’s just because I don’t remember bein’ around people I was related to but feelin like somebody’s family don’t really go away just cause ya fall for ‘em. I mean I’m pretty sure everybody’s had a crush on Jack at some point. I don’t really know nobody I consider more of a brother than him and I was one of everybody that had a crush on the guy.” He sounded frustrated in the way that only a newsie could get when they were talking about something they were viewing from the outside in. 

Sometimes when they got talking you would hear it, little social things they didn’t understand because they didn’t grow up having it forced on them. Hotshot remembered the abject confusion of one of his littles when the kid found out that girls are supposedly inferior. It was always hard to explain to kids whose mothers died in childbirth that a lot of people don’t think that’s enough to be ‘tough’. 

“Crushes don’t make flowers grow in your lungs.” He pointed out.

“Neither does wantin’ to get in bed with somebody. It’s somethin’ English don’t got a word for. At least I don’t know one. It’s like ya’d be willin’ ta die for ‘em just to be happy so when ya think they don’t want ya ya just do.” He shrugged looking almost defeated. 

“I…” Racetrack was right. He would give Spot anything. He was right lust not being the biggest factor as well. Of course he’d fantasized about those soft looking lips and strong hands but most nights he just thought about wanting to crawl up next to him, not necessarily on him. Though, he wouldn’t object to either.

“He loves ya. God, anytime I didn’t know what to talk to him about I would ask how you were and he’d just go on and on. How you’re talkin’ more. How good ya are with littles. How ya think sneakin’ off ta the library is a secret. How ya took on three guys at once. I was damn jealous.” He smiled down at his ratty shoes as he admitted it.

Hotshot couldn’t help but laugh, as much as that hurt. “With the way he looks at you? It’s like you’re the sun itself and whatever it is hangin’ in the sky is just something you tossed up there when you were bored.”

“See? More of that ‘poety stuff’ Spot was tellin’ me about.” Racetrack took a step forward and put his hand on Hotshot’s chest. Hotshot could see what drew Spot to him so quickly. Like Spot, Race’s touches were deliberate it was obvious that he was drawing Hotshot’s attention to both the pain and his hammering heart. Yet, they were very casual, Race had no real hesitance when he touched someone. When he decided he wanted to it was like second nature to him to practically lay on someone. “I don’t know much about medicine, but maybe, if ya decide that ya gotta try and live for him ya can beat this. Cause he’s gonna be a wreck without ya.”

“I’ll do my damnedest.” When he sighed he could feel leaves brushing against each other like wind through trees. “But it’s Al that deserves to beat this.”

Racetrack gripped at his shirt as Hotshot confirms what he already probably knew. 

“He’s got a family. He can just talk forever even when there’s nothing to say and he can pick pocket damn near anything. He doesn’t even realize how interesting he is. He thinks he’s annoying. Boring somehow. How could a guy with hair like a copper penny when it’s new be boring? How could you be boring if you’re choked up on violets? Somethin’ that’s medicine and candy all in one?” It was infuriating to see the guy not appreciate himself like he should.

Racetrack’s grip went slack and he stared for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah we should uh, we should find him.” 

Hotshot assumed it was fear that lead Racetrack to grabbing his hand and all but running to catch up with the others. Keeping up was one of the most difficult things Hotshot had ever done, his lungs burned and he could taste blood on his tongue. It was like there was no air in his body as he ran across the bridge. He just couldn’t continue moving. 

His legs gave out sending him onto all fours on the concrete. He could hear voices calling his name but the drips of blood falling from his nose made him unable to focus on anything else. They had tiny yellow petals in nearly every droplet. It was kind of pretty if he pretended it wasn’t what it was.

“I-I didn’t know he was this bad already I-“ Racetrack’s voice had jumped a few octaves as the others rushed to them. 

“Neither did I.” Spot wasn’t mad, just broken. Hotshot would rather him be mad. Infuriated. “Shotty, can you stand? At least…At least let us get ya there if that’s what ya want.” His voice was more pained than Hotshot had ever heard it.

“I’m sorry.” He rasped.

“I can sit here with ya then, send Race ta-“ Spot started to offer.

“No, “ He gestured to the red stains on the ground. He was sorry for ruining everything. For hurting him. For getting sick.

“Look at me.” Spot put his hand on Hotshot’s cheek. “You ain’t gotta be sorry. Not ever. I may not know what the fuck I’m gonna do without ya but ya ain’t gotta be sorry for that. It’s my fuckin’ fault anyway.” 

He tried to shake his head but Spot wouldn’t let him. 

“Bullshit. The first time I told Race what he needed ta hear was when I thought he was asleep. If ya never say it ya can’t be turned down and ya can’t be seen as weak. I killed ya by bein’ scared.” Spot’s voice cracked but he forced himself to continue. “I love ya Shotty. I can’t imagine a me without ya. You’se pretty much the better half a me.”

He was serious. Spot was here, holding him, telling him that he loved him. Then, why wasn’t the disease letting up? Hotshot believed him. Before he could start to really question it Spot was lifting him, it was awkward given the height difference but Spot really didn’t have a problem with his weight. 

“Let’s get ya to that garden.” Spot sounded like he’d die before he didn’t get Hotshot there.

Al, they had to find al. If he was even still alive. The thought of him being alone while feeling like this was worse than the lack of air. “Al...”

“He’ll be fine. The guy is tough. Brooklyn material tough.” Spot shifted him in his arms before setting off at a quick pace.

Race grinned but said nothing as he followed. 

Albert was sitting at the base of a scraggly tree staring at something on the ground. As they got closer Hotshot felt a burst of joy he never expected to feel again. Violets. A whole bundle of them planted in the ground. There were far too many for it just to be the result of a coughing fit. They were fully stemmed.

Somehow he beat it. He was going to be fine. 

But for some reason he looked nervous when they approached.

“I-I’m sorry I…” He waved his hand like he was looking for something to say. “I couldn’t.”

Hotshot and Spot looked at each other in confusion but Race just flopped down on the ground next to him. “If ya think this guy would be anything but giddy that you ain’t gonna die you’se nuts.”

“We agreed…” His voice was barely a whisper.

“So?” Hotshot wiggled a little so Spot knew to set him down. His throat was raw but he forced himself to continue. “Live. For me.”

“It’ll just come back.” Albert had to blink back tears.

“How?” Hotshot hadn’t heard of it returning before.

“I…” Al sighed and shook his head, prompting Racetrack to groan. 

“He almost died on the way here fucking kiss him already.” He gently shoved Al with his foot. 

Hotshot was about to question him when a pair of lips found their way to his. They were cracked and tasted like iron from coughing up flowers all evening. Al gripped at his waist as if he had done it a thousand times before and Hotshot could tell by the slight waver that he was on tip-toe to reach him properly. Sliding a hand around his back and leaning into him felt natural, like he’d been waiting for it and didn’t realize it. 

“When I started across the bridge I um, accidentally thought about some stuff. Racetrack’s fault-“

“Hey!” Racetrack interjected looking too offended for it not to be true.

“And they just started commin’ up. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just show up and tell ya I’m cured after we made a big deal of it.” Al went red as if he realized he was confessing to feeling guilty about not dying.

“C-“ Hotshot’s attempt to comfort him was cut off by a coughing fit that steadily brought him to his knees. It was agonizing, that was for sure, but the pull of roots in his flesh wasn’t quite there.

Al knelt with him as he went down. “Why’s his nose bleedin’?”

Racetrack was quickly at his other side and Spot behind him. “I didn’t know he’d gotten as bad as he did and got him runnin’.” Long fingers tilted his head back to look down his throat. “Jesus.”

“It’s the worst part.” Albert glanced at the violets he’d placed in the ground. “Race I got an idea, Spot hold him still.” 

Hotshot openly embraced his fading consciousness because he’d been a party to desperate ideas meant to save a kid’s life. It was never something anyone wanted to be awake for.

It was dawn when he woke up. The first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t cold despite spending all night outside. Spot had curled around him in the night to fight off the chill. 

Then the gripping pain hit him when he tried to breathe. Air came in so freely he almost felt dizzy but the sting of it was like being scoured with a knife. No brushing of leaves. No smell of flowers. They were gone. 

“You made it.” Racetrack looked like a horror. Both of his hands were stained with blood all the way to the wrists. If it weren’t for the bits of leaves and petals stuck to them you would think him a murderer. “Al realized you weren’t gonna be strong enough ta get ‘em all out so I cut out the middle man for ya. He’s gone to get medicine. And liquor. Or at least he better bring back liquor.”

Hotshot wouldn’t have been able to find words if he could speak. He weakly offered his hand to pull Racetrack down onto the patchy grass. 

Racetrack shook his head. “I don’t think ya wan’t me bloodying ya up even more.”

He held his hand out insistently. It was cold. Race looked tired. Racetrack saved his life. All three of them did but Race he could thank right now.

Race sighed and laid next to him. “Suit yourself. Ya already look like a murder victim so I guess it can’t hurt.”

From where he was laying Hotshot could see that the dandelions had been planted near the violets. Yellow and purple flowers over a potter’s field, just like he’d wanted. 

It was nearly three weeks before Hotshot was able to speak again. The first thing he said was: “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> https://goo.gl/maps/mcHV6Zh2DyCjY6b88
> 
> Found this near the bowery. Cried some.
> 
> Note:  
Hotshot's got what's now called selective mutism in this. Basically in some social situations he can't speak but in others he can. Back then it was called voluntary aphasia. For him it's worst when he has to interact with adults he doesn't know. Meeting new people in general can make it flair up but when they're kids and especially when they're newsies it's not that bad.  
Spot has dyscalculia. Which is similar to dyslexia but the brain goes full on ?????? when trying to process numbers rather than words.  
Myron's got a shot of that good ol' anxiety. Don't we all.


End file.
